Freeing Kirsty Ch. 08

SO FAR: Divorcee Merrick Jamieson (35) visiting New York comes into contact with the moll of the mysterious Spiro. The spirited Kirsty Fallon (25) finds she has become attracted and follows the photo-journalist to his homeland and begins working with him. Merrick foils a retriever sent to return Kirsty to New York and then travels to Manhattan and wins her freedom from Spiro. The couple are now in Los Angeles for their wedding where Merrick is incapacitated, suffering two knife wounds when defending his ex brother-in-law's wife Margaret. Marg's suppressed sexual interest in Merrick re-emerges.

*

Saturday provided a typical Californian sunny afternoon for the wedding. The gallery in the events centre was over-decorated, American style, which produced an uncomplimentary response from the recuperating bridegroom as Brian wheeled Merrick in.

The men waited in the small alcove for late-arriving people to settle.

The marriage celebrant entered the alcove and greeted them again; they had met the previous morning for introductions and a briefing. The celebrant went out and stood before the 192 guests plus Kirsty's parents and Merrick's mother.

The burble died as the celebrant turned towards the alcove. Taking that cue, Brian pushed Merrick out in his wheelchair. A wave of 'ooohs" and sympathetic clicking from tongues were clearly audible as Merrick came into view, dressed in a white tuxedo, lace-fronted shirt, multi-color bow-tie and black trousers and shoes. This was how Kirsty had insisted he dress.

Another of Kirsty's decision's was it was not necessary to go through the ritual of her father 'giving her away'. "He gave up on me years ago," she had quipped, and her parents agreed with her desire.

There was a pause, almost long enough to make the gathering restless. That was Kirsty's instructions again. Then the organ began playing 'Here Comes the Bride' and in she walked daintily, those fabulous legs well exposed. She wore a short white and very lacy dress, white lace topped shoes and a white veil almost to her shoulders. Spiro's diamonds flashed at her throat and ear lobes. Behind her in hot pink were paired Meg and Marg who looked lovely, in their prime.

Being a non-church wedding, the congregation decided to clap in the bride and her attendants to which the organist responded by changing tune to give them a perfect beat.

Kirsty had allowed her hair to grow longer for the wedding and her blond mane was clearly visible under the thin veil. Head down as she walked, she looked the epitome of the virginal bride which was what she'd intended to convey. That image would be long remembered by her adoring new friend Bella, almost swooning in excitement.

The two big-bosom attendants in their noticeable short pink dresses with plunging necklines looked anything but virginal, as both were heavily made up and walked with pouting lips.

Only Kirsty carried a bouquet.

When the time came for the couple to take their vows, Brian and Marg helped Merrick to his feet. That went smoothly as they had been practicing and for the past two days Brian had allowed Merrick to walk a few steps every two hours.

So, with a heavily strapped thigh and bandaged forearm, Merrick took his place beside Kirsty amid sounds of sights and sniffling from some of the congregation.

During the short ceremony a photographer with two cameras flitted around while another woman recorded the event on video. Later the photographer secured her best shot of the day (according to Merrick) -- Kirsty immediately at the end of the ceremony leaning forward to say something to Brian, with her two attendants behind her facing each other talking, with Merrick in the foreground leaning back in his wheel chair with a smug smile on his face.

It was, of course, simply one of those shots captured by a photographer being in the right place at the right time. The wedding party was captured looking so happy, so relaxed; it would be agreed afterwards when viewing the result it was a very natural shot.

Marg and Brian wondered what Kirsty had just said to Merrick that brought joy to his face so enquired. "I've just told Merrick that I'm confirmed pregnant."

* * *

Watching this event in suppressed emotion, apart from a few dabs to his eyes with a silk handkerchief, was the seemingly split personality and crime boss Spiro who was know by his victims, business associates, mistresses and others including Merrick by no other name. But he was named conventionally.

Benji Alonis Spiro was born on the outskirts of Milan. So, he's Italian one would assume. Yes, by birth.

His late father was an Albanian immigrant -- a stone mason. Stone masons were much in demand in Italy in the post-war revival from the early 1950s. Ebonique, his part-Egyptian, part Iranian mother was born in Rome and in her late teens went north looking for the opportunity to be trained as a seamstress. She found success in Milan.

In Milan Ebonique also found Kostandin Spiro and they had three children -- one a boy. Ebonique chose the name Benji while his father chose Alonis. As a defiant young teenager Benji decided he liked neither name so adopted Spiro as his only name, though neither parent concurred: his mother continued to call him Benji and Kostandin called him Alonis.

Shortly after turning sixteen Benji/Alonis/Spiro became involved with a street gang and narrowly escaped being brought before court to join older members of the gang who murdered the leader of a rival gang.

"Alonis -- you are going to America to live with my half-brother," his father decided.

"My Benji -- he cannot go, I need him here."

"Why?" demanded his father.

His mother could offer no substantial answer so Benji/Alonis/Spiro was sent to America. As soon as the ship left Genoa, Benji/Alonis/Spiro declared: "From this day I am to be called Spiro and only Spiro."

One day during the voyage Spiro was talking to a priest also immigrating to America. The priest had prodded for another name but Spiro said Spiro he was, nothing more. Intrigued the priest told Spiro that authorities in America would call him by his proper name, unless he changed it legally, but it was doubtful that a 16-year-old would get his name change application granted.

The priest and Spiro continued this debate the following day, and finally Spiro knew what he had to do. Within a week of his arrival he had won Uncle Alexis' support and a legal name change resulted. Benji Alonis Spiro was now Spiro Spiro. This was the preferred outcome; had it not been accepted Spiro had an alternative at the ready, suggested by the priest -- Shapiro Spiro. The learned priest had informed the teenager and Spiro is actually a shortened form of Shapiro.

Uncle Alexis was a stone mason with his own small business. He put Spiro to work, and taught him a great deal while paying him a pittance. After three years, with her daughters becoming teenagers, his Aunt decided Spiro should sleep elsewhere.

"I'll put a shed in the yard -- he can leave here after his evening meal and sleep down there. With the rats!"

Spiro did not think this was a good idea. It was absurd to think that he would molest the daughters -- they were ugly!

Spiro put down his knife and fork.

"Thank you for all you have taught me, Uncle Alexis, and taking me into your home. It is time I must leave this town."

Alexis opened his mouth to protest but opened it further when receiving a painful kick in the shin from his wife.

"All right, my son," Alexis said glaring at Yolanda. "You sleep here in your bed as usual tonight. Tomorrow I will go to the bank and get you money. I will give you an address of an old friend and ask him to give you a job."

For four years Spiro worked for that Italian-born contractor in Boston where he continued to specialize in stone columns and arches. In time Spiro became an irascible, time-waster who disrupted other workers so after their twentieth dispute over Spiro's behavior and slothful habits, the contractor finally fired his best craftsman.

Spiro by then had grown into a big man, a very strong man. He also liked to exhibit his toughness. So his response at being fired was to knock his boss to the ground and urinate over him in front of the man's cowering wife and his foreman.

"You'll never work in the city again," yelled the postulating foreman, hoping to ingratiate himself on the fallen man's wife. Spiro's reply was an obscene gesture. He was on his way to Atlantic City for a holiday, to revel in wine, women and singing. In his back pocket was the bulging wallet of his boss which Spiro had removed deftly when turning the man over to wet him.

Boarding the bus for New York Spiro reviewed his life and was relatively happy, except that he was now a criminal as he assumed his boss would angrily report the assault, foul humiliation and the theft of money. Smiling darkly, Spiro pulled out the wallet. He whistled and began counting the wad of money; it came to forty-two hundred dollars. He also found a key, what appeared to be a safe deposit key.

All this appears to suggest that piss-face must be evading taxation. If that were true, thought Spiro, it means I will remain a free man as he won't want the contents of this wallet to end up in police hands. As the bus crossed a river bridge, Spiro threw the wallet -- less the $4200 -- way out into the muddy waters. With a pocket full of money, Spiro resolved he'd never would he work as a stone mason again.

After two days and three nights gambling, drinking and whoring in Queens, making new buddies, Spiro continue to his destination to enjoy a holiday in Atlantic City, the city having being described to him in Boston by an itinerant workmate as 'the Golden City of my dreams'. That man Stephen had told him that ordinary men can become moneyed men in Atlantic City.

It occurred to Spiro that Stephen himself was not a moneyed man, but he did not ridicule him for the simple reason that the dream had taken hold of Spiro. He'd actually set a date for quitting and going to Atlantic City just a few days before he was fired. Within hours of his arrival, Spiro was in trouble. He'd laughed at a bargirl who tripped over a chair left carrying a tray, falling on to her face and sending empty glasses flying.

A bouncer helped the girl to her feet and glowered at Spiro: "Apologize to Janis, you ape."

Spiro looked at Janis; pale-faced and squirming she tried to free herself from the brute's grasp. "Let the moll go, Spiro hissed.

The girl looked surprise, the big man looked angry. He let her go and at the same time sank a first into Spiro's belly.

Spiro moved back with the blow, emitting a painful whoosh of air. But he remained standing.

Bewildered, the bouncer threw a punch at Spiro's mouth. Spiro easily weaved out of harm's way, caught the fist as it went over his shoulder, and turning the arc applied bone-crushing pressure just with his left hand. The man howled with pain and sank to the floor in agony.

The short silence was broken by a cry of rage as the manager came around the bar at Spiro wielding a baseball bat.

"Abe!" thundered a voice.

Abe slowed to a stop, dropping the bat to his side.

"Yes, Mr Montalbano?"

"That will do. Drag your man away -- get someone to clean up his vomit. Hey, young fellow!"

Spiro turned and saw a fat man wearing a light hat the same shade of his jacket beckoning to him. Seated on either side of him were two burly men. A young woman sat with them.

"Yes?"

"Do I know you, kid?"

"Nah, just got into town."

Mr Montalbano smiled and whispered something to the man on his left, who shifted to the next table.

"You catch on fast, kid. Come sit by me."

Spiro introduced himself as Spiro and sat down.

"Spiro?" queried the heavyweight sitting on the other side of Mr Montalbano.

"Just Spiro -- nothing comes before it, nothing after; get it?"

"Running away from something, kid?"

"Yeah, a mug who didn't appreciate my value, so I stoked him, pissed all over him and said adios."

The young woman looked shocked.

"We keep clean mouths when we are in the company of ladies," Mr Mantalbano yawned.

"I apologize, miss," Spiro said, rising from his chair. "May I fetch you a drink in compensation?"

"We buy our..." began Mr Mantalbano.

"Just a soda, thank you; your choice of flavor."

Spiro snapped his fingers and a bargirl came over quickly.

"A peach soda for the lady, please. Whisky for me. Gentlemen?"

Both men shook their heads, watching Spiro closely.

"Do you have a name, Miss?"

"Francine."

"What a pretty name."

Out of the corner of his eye Spiro saw the restraining arm of Mr Montalbano on the chest of the heavyweight.

"What about my name appeals to you?"

To Spiro, the answer to such a question for an Italian born and initially raised man was no problem. "It has an exotic smoothness to it, expressing the attractiveness of a classy European flower."

"That's only my name you are talking about. What do you say in praise of me?"

"That's enough, Francine. Here's your drink coming."

"You're not suppose to be eavesdropping, daddy. But since you are, may Spiro accompany use to dinner?"

"My clever girl. I was thinking the same thing as Spiro interests me."

Eight months later Francine and Spiro were married and after Spiro returned from two weeks in Mexico, Mr Montalbano semi-retired, put Spiro in charge of the Laundromat business, with branches in New York (Manhattan) and Chicago.

Spiro took over the apartments Mr Mantalbano operated through the business in New York and Chicago, installing younger women as his 'secretaries'. This side of the business rather appealed.

The other side to the business was the real business -- debt collection and keeping the operations of clients free from interlopers and the commercially unacceptable tactics of stand-over gangs. That side of the business was worked through contracts -- soldiers were engaged on a job by job basis.

This system appealed to Spiro because of its simplicity. Soldiers hired out to anyone who suited them, and their allegiance was held by the operator at the time of hire. In most instances the system worked faultlessly. But one exception hit right at home: one morning a disgruntled solider harboring a festering grudge, fatally stabbed Mr Montalbano outside Mr Montalbano's home as he began to walk his dog; the murderer escaped.

Riccardo Mantalbano had been feared because of his skill with a knife, whether throwing it, removing ears or whatever. His death by knifing was considered so significant that his funeral was one of the largest held in Atlantic City for some years.

"This successor, the son-in-law -- who is he?" was the question asked in bars and restaurants after the funeral. The conclusion was that this 'Mr Nobody" would not last -- he had no reputation.

A week later the murderer was located by agents of Spiro in Miami and returned secretly to Atlantic City. Next morning at daylight he was found outside his own home, his neck broken an eye gouged and testicles pulverized by a hammer. Word spread quickly that the remaining eye was open, staring frozen in terror.

A month after the police lost interest in this inexplicable assassination. At a restaurant meeting of notable men a nickname was adopted, news of it sweeping through the underground: Spiro had received the title, The Testes Grinder.

By now Spiro was aware of how crime operated and how criminals thought and acted. He took particular interest in how they thought. Soon the underworld in three cities got an unequivocal message -- if anyone topped Spiro his minders had sworn to deliver retribution -- beginning with the pulverization of knuckles, then toe joints and finally testicles.

Spiro's eventual retirement was assured, provided he was not taken by natural causes.

Happily watching Meg at the bridal table, really enjoying herself, Spiro glanced at Merrick. What a pity Merrick was thirty-five years of age, only seven years younger than Spiro -- had there been ten or better still fifteen years of age difference, Merrick could have been Spiro's natural successor. That is, provided he could be persuaded to move on to lower moral ground.

"Ah, Mr Spiro -- what do you do to make money?" enquired a middle-aged socialite sitting next to him. " Ah, Mrs Magellan," he said, reading the name tag on her drooping chest. "I operate a chain of Laundromats."

"Oh, how nice," she commented coldly, turning away from him.

Spiro returned to his musings.

Blast Francine, he thought. She'd turned their elder son into a softie -- he had begun studying to be a doctor.

"No laundry business for my Lenny," she'd said repeatedly.

So firm was that that Spiro wondered if she actually knew that the business was a front. He'd never told her, never involving her in any business activity, telling her that it would be beneath her dignity to associate with the morons who worked for him.

His late patron, Riccardo, had advised him to keep Francine ignorant about all forms of business. If he needed a partner to a business associated function, there were girls around who would be only too willing to accompany him anywhere and at anytime.

Sophia was his usual choice in Atlantic City. A young widow with two children and readily available babysitters, a swinger with a small mouth -- she didn't gossip as far as he was aware. It was Francine who had introduced him to Sophia -- socially, of course. The two women were in a group that read poetry or something weird like that and Sophia lived only one street away from them. The choice of Sophia was perfect and coming home from functions she was always a perfect partner in the back of the limo as well. Sophia also kept him amused, asking direct questions such as, "How does Francine keep her respect for you when she must be aware there are other women in your life like me?"

Spiro recalled having to scratch his head over that one before replying: "Now that she has three children she does not like so much activity between the sheets, you know. She prefers I get my exercise elsewhere."

He'd not liked the next question, "Why is Lenny so much like Francine and not very much like you at all?"

Sophia had realized the questions had upset him and recovered well: "I'll get Francine to allow Lenny to play with my Oliver. Ollie likes to play rough and will toughen up Lenny, show him how to be a man."

Spiro had told her to arrange that tomorrow and then began opening her dress and exposing her breasts with a roughness that she loved, giggling and heaving around in the back seat to make Spiro excited.

Thinking about this comfortable arrangement with Sophia, Spiro sighed. Sophia was really fun to be with but she was ugly, well, just a little off being pretty. Francine -- she was just a little off being beautiful, even after three kids. But Kirsty, sweet Kirsty -- she was the beautiful one, beautiful inside too.

Spiro was brought out of this musing by a gently shake on the shoulder. It was the tall, thin daughter-in-law of Alec Raymond. He'd noticed her before -- the quiet woman with dark, sexy eyes. They had been introduced but he'd forgotten her name. Her husband was the twin of Brian, not that they looked like peas out of the same pod.

"Spiro -- come dance with me. Stan is on the turps," Gail invited, champagne having temporarily eradicated her natural reserve.

"Huh?"

"Oops, I'm sorry," Gail giggled, picking up Spiro's glass and draining it.

"Lost in translation as they say. He is drinking whisky and swapping stories. Where I come from our rough name for alcoholic drink is turps."

"I don't much like to dance -- I only dance when my Francine insists that it's expected of me."

"If you don't dance, what do you do?"

He leered; she flushed at looked below his midriff.